


The Knowledge

by blacktail_chorus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, London, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:58:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2645978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktail_chorus/pseuds/blacktail_chorus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Most people</i>, Sherlock thought as he swung his leg over, <i>do not appreciate how patient I truly am</i>.</p><p>---</p><p>Another cabbie takes an interest in Sherlock Holmes. Or, why Sherlock knows how to ride a motorbike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Knowledge

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by a recent piece in the [New York Times Style Magazine](http://tmagazine.blogs.nytimes.com/2014/11/10/london-taxi-test-knowledge/?_r=0) about people studying to become London cab drivers. It is a fascinating read, and made me wonder just how Sherlock had gone about getting that map of London into his head.
> 
> If you've never heard of "the Knowledge," I suggest you skim the above article or the relevant [Wikipedia entry](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taxicabs_of_the_United_Kingdom#The_Knowledge) before reading this piece.

"Burgess Park."

"Yes, sir."

John barely managed to close the rear door before the cabbie darted back out into traffic. Sherlock was already settled and had withdrawn into his own thoughts, his head turned to gaze out the far window. His eyes flickered over the buildings and shops they passed. The weak, pregnant silence that descended stretched out for a few beats before it became clear that chatter would not be a feature on this trip.

Then the cab driver spoke up.

"Say," he started.

John lifted his head, prepared to engage the man and allow the detective to think in peace.

"You're him. Holmes," the cabbie continued. "I always hoped I might pick you up, passing through the area."

"Oh?" John responded. Memories of the last cabbie who had taken an interest in Sherlock surfaced in his mind.

"What do you think my line's going to be, then?" the cabbie asked, ignoring John.

"Did we just walk into a play?" John cut in, staring fixedly at the cabbie's reflection in the rearview mirror. Sherlock remained unengaged.

The cabbie's eyes flicked up to meet John's. "What? No, my line. Means my route. How I'm going to get you there," he explained.

"You need directions?" John's tone had a hint of a bite.

"I've passed the Knowledge, haven't I?" the cabbie shot back. "Just like Holmes here. Youngest ever, too, at least when he did it. Some nineteen-year-old beat his record just last week. Still, second youngest is impre--"

"His parents are cab drivers and he'd been studying for over two years," Sherlock cut in. "His new 'record' hardly compares to mastery after eighteen months of study alongside fulltime coursework at university." He continued to stare out the window.

"So it is you!" the cabbie crowed. "Go on then, tell me. What's the line?"

"I'm not a trained dog," Sherlock sniffed.

"Easy, mates," John interjected, holding up his right hand placatingly. He rushed to forestall a pissing contest while their wallets were at the mercy of the cabbie's clock. "Let's just get to the park, alright?" At least the driver hadn't turned out to be anything more than a garden-variety irritation.

"Yes, _sir_ ," the cabbie acquiesced after a beat. Silence fell once again.

Then the cabbie took a turn. John could tell that Sherlock was stifling a sigh. The cabbie turned again. This, apparently, was too much for Sherlock to take.

"Oh, for god's sakes!" he spat, throwing his hands into the air. "It's forward, then right! At this rate we'll have to take the Waterloo bridge. This is abominable." He rolled his eyes and flopped his head dramatically back on the seat. "And stop thinking. You're annoying."

"Yessir," the cabbie responded gravely. Only, John saw a smile twitch at the corner of the other man's mouth, and realized he'd gotten the answer he wanted out of Sherlock Holmes after all.

\---

 _Most people_ , Sherlock thought as he swung his leg over his motorbike, _do not appreciate how patient I truly am_. He slid his helmet on, checked the clips holding his maps in place on the windscreen, and darted out of the storage unit into the crisp night air. _To Bromley, then._

He'd solved the death in Burgess Park--accidental, unfortunate mixture of drugs and an encounter with aggressive waterfowl--in under a quarter of an hour. It had not been nearly the distraction he'd hoped. In addition, Lestrade had been more offended than usual by Sherlock's rapid dismissals, and John's normally welcome interlocution had been slightly out-of-step, and therefore grating. Sherlock needed to clear his head; it was time for research. 

The central streets with shops were first. Businesses generally changed more frequently than residential streets, after all. Much was the same as his last tour, though two restaurants on one avenue had folded and been replaced by functionally identical equivalents (also doomed to fail; just look at the location). Still, he dutifully updated his mental map, using the paper map on his windscreen as an anchor for the reorganization. Then it was onto the houses. 

It was a glorious evening to be out pointing. London was never silent or still, of course, but at this hour it had a low, soothing hum. Families in their quiet suburban homes went about their evening routines, never realizing how much they broadcast to the outside world even with their curtains drawn against the night. _That_ one, for instance, on the corner--that family had recently adopted a highly excitable dog. (Unimportant; delete. Not even Sherlock Holmes could map the location of every mutt in the city.) 

His mind was only half on his task as he buzzed by the staid, unchanging residences. The other half of his attention found itself wandering. 

In that portion of his mind he was nineteen years old again, on this street in Bromley for the first time. His attention then had been more focused on his new motorbike than on the Knowledge; he'd only upgraded from running pointing tours on his bicycle the week before. Mummy had been horrified, but there had been nothing she could do: his bike, his money, his _life_ had finally begun. He was in uni now, he was an _adult_ , and he was going to _show_ Mycroft, that smarmy, oafish-- 

Well. _Some things never change_ , Sherlock-present thought to himself. 

A cutting remark from Mycroft about the superiority of a plebeian cab driver's memory over Sherlock's early attempts at a mind palace had prompted the whole endeavour. He was glad now for the reactionary, childish response that had prompted him to stuff every nook and cranny of this new city into his head. As it had worked its way into his brain, so, too, had it wound around his heart. Street names tattooed onto his veins and odd pockets of Life lit up his neurons. He built London over and over again with his bones. 

He had finally come out the other side of the residential sector and now found himself entering an industrial zone. His favourite sort of area, really: the invisible engines that made the neat rows of houses possible. _This_ was what Lestrade, and even John, frequently failed to understand. They saw him work every day but failed to observe his diligent and deliberate methods. He was not magic; he was dedicated. Two-hundred and forty-three types of tobacco ash did not describe and categorize themselves, after all. 

Nor did the ever-changing landscape of London. A long-empty warehouse on the edge of the industrial area had been transformed into a gallery. Quite an experimental one, too, judging by the views illuminated by sparse yellow security lights. Sherlock glanced down at his map and added this new development to its proper place. 

\--- 

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock frowned as he rounded the corner and saw the lights in the sitting room still on. John never forgot to turn them off; what was he doing awake at this hour? 

Reading, as it turned out. Or pretending to. He sat bow-legged in his chair, his bare feet curled against each other on the carpet and his head propped up with his right hand. Broken sleep, perhaps a nightmare, but not a bad one. He looked up groggily when Sherlock entered the room. 

"What happened to your _hair_?" John blurted out as Sherlock crossed the threshold. 

Sherlock's hands flew unthinkingly to his head. Of course--the helmet. It had both flattened his curls and frizzed out the edges, though the effect really was very slight. He smiled. Perhaps, one day, John might learn to observe after all. 

Sherlock hung up his coat and moved to sit in his chair, across from his friend. 

"Did I ever tell you, John," he asked, "about my first motorbike?" 


End file.
